


Crossroads

by finlyfoe



Series: The Julia Files [4]
Category: Homeland
Genre: Backstory, Break Up, Developing Relationship, Drug Use, Estrangement, F/M, Gen, Pre-Series, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 11:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8326012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finlyfoe/pseuds/finlyfoe
Summary: How come Julia and Peter, so in love, split up?"The Julia Files" are my take on Peter Quinn's backstory, w/in official lines.Reading "Happily ever-" first is recommended.





	

**Author's Note:**

> and once again, thanks to koalathebear for beta-reading!

  
  
A ring - now that is an interesting find! – Carrie, sifting through Peter Quinn’s cardboard-box of secrets, takes out the small copper-colored band. She has seen similar rings before, it’s something St Irish: two hands holding a heart with a crown, a symbol of love and trust and loyalty, if she remembers correctly. She will look into the details later. It is made for a small female hand, one about her size… Who would have thought that Quinn had an Irish background?  
  
****  
  
  
**Thanksgiving 2006**  
  
Julia sets the table for the family dinner at her mother’s house.

Consuela, head of the clan, rearranging some flowers, is visibly upset: “Julia, what do you mean, Carlos won’t be coming?!”

“Mamma, come on! You know we split back in May. Stop pretending it didn't happen! We're through, finished, he moved out, end of story.”

“Ah, love knows ups and downs, Julieta, you have to stand by your man! The two of you should get back together….”

“Mamma, we aren’t, it’s over, finada, no point trying to push him back at me!”

Consuela sighs. “Julieta… you are too picky. What about ninos and ninas, don’t I deserve grand-children?”

“Jesus, Mamma, you have grandchildren! Diego has two kids, Garcia and Sara have one on the way so I’d say I'm off the hook!”  Julia puts down the plates with a thud.

“Julieta, you need a nice young man to look after you… Rosa told me her son Gabriel has just returned from-“

“Momma, stop it or I'm leaving now!” Julia puts her foot down with a heavy stomp and stares at her mother with angry eyes.

“Don’t worry, Ma”, Federico interjects, sitting on the couch, sipping sherry and not lifting a finger, brought up from childhood in the firm belief that party preparations – as with all household activities - are women’s business only, “our Julia here already got a new stud…”

Julieta throws Federico a threatening glance. Consuelo smacks him on the head.

“That’s for your language…” Another smack. “And that’s for squealing on your sister!- What is he talking about, Julieta?”

Julia folds the napkins and doesn't react.

“It’s true, Ma… the guy nearly shot me…”

Julia stops the folding: “He thought you were a burglar, that’s why!”

“I used a key, sis…”

“You didn’t exactly let us know that you wanted to show up…”

“I came to fix your goddamn tap!”

Consuela smacks him again: that language!, stating at the same time: “Ah that is a good brother, Federico… looking after your little sister… Julia – let your new amigo fix your tap!”

“He did, Ma! And I am not the little sister- I'm older, for Christ’s sake! - He told you he was sorry, Rico!”

“Stop misusing the name of our Lord, Julieta… So what is he like?”, Consuela sits down and looks expectantly at both her children.

“He’s huge and he’s paranoid”, Federico throws in, “I was half in and he slammed me against the wall, pressing a gun against my throat. I nearly wet myself.”

“Thank you Rico….”, hisses Julia, “once a tell-tale, always a tell-tale…”

“Oh come off it, Jules… Your secrecy is ridiculous… it's like you had some super secret spy dude in your bed and not just some jerk with too much testosterone.”

“Be quiet, both of you!”, Consuelo states, “Madre Mia, will this never stop?!”, and the siblings shut up. 

“So, Julieta, tell me – what kind of man is it you are seeing? What does he do? Is he nice and understanding? Does he love you? Can he raise a family? Are you happy?”

Julia takes a breath. “OK then… his name is John… and yes, we are happy.”

“Does he have a degree?”

“I – think so.”

“So you don’t know? What does he do for a living?”

“He is… special forces…”

“A soldier? Jesus, Julia, he might get killed! Tell him to join the police like all of your family, that’s much better… Why didn’t you invite him for Thanksgiving? Call him up right now, girl!”

“Ma, he’s not in town.”

“So he’s with his family? That sounds like a good boy…”

Julia smiles and says nothing.

 

  
**December 3rd, 2006**

Early Saturday morning, John and Julia are at Julia’s place, draped over one another after making love. Both naked, relaxed, John on the brink of falling asleep, but Julia very much awake and in a talkative mood.

“A pity you missed out on our Thanksgiving dinner – it was fun.”  
“Glad to hear.”  
“I mean – family… they are so – annoying yet – they are great. You gotta come along next time.”  
“Mmhm...”  
“Please- you've got to! You only know half of my life if you haven’t met my family… you’ll like my brothers, you know…. You’ll sit there and drink and joke and be total smart-asses and get us girls annoyed…”  
“First meeting didn’t go too well…”  
“Yeah but you two could make up. I mean, Rico is a moron… but he’s fun… and he cares about people…”  
John doesn’t answer. Julia softly brushes her hand across his chest.  
 “You remember the moment you let me know it was you – John from Baltimore? Not this alias?”  
John grunts something incomprehensible to show he still listens. Sort of.  
“You asked me why I ended up joining the police. Because of my family! I used to want so much to be different, I said screw the cops and stuff… Then my dad died and I realized how much it is me, this family. Even the law and order stuff. You know?”  
Another incomprehensible grunt.  
“I always tried to be wild and a rebel, but deep down, you know… why not a house in suburbia and two kids and a happy family?” She props herself up on her elbow. “Does that make me boring?”  
John gives up on the idea of falling asleep. “No Jules, you are definitely not boring.” He stretches his arms and smiles at her. “You are so not boring…”  
“So how am I?”  
“That's a dangerous question… If I give the wrong answer, you’ll kick me out immediately, because you are – wayward… wilful… determined… oh and hot as hell,” and he tenderly nudges her nose.  
“And you are far too smart, John… will you come and meet my family?”  
“Yeah. Sure. One day.”  
“What about your family?”  
“I don’t have one. I told you.”  
“That’s why I'm offering to share mine. Mine is big enough for two!”  
John smiles, and Julia cranes her neck towards him to kiss him.  
“No siblings, poor you... What about your parents?”  
John takes a moment to consider how to answer this, then decides to give her the truth - in a G rated version.  
“My father got lost when I was, I don’t know… little.”  
“What do you mean, he got lost?”  
“I don’t know him.”  
“You never tried to find him?”  
_Fuck no._  
“Nope.”  
“Seriously?”  
“Nope.”  
She scrutinizes his face, clearly vexed.  
“Why not?”  
_Cos he was poison._  
“My mom sure had her reasons.”  
“OK…. What about your mom then?”  
“She… was sick, a chronic disease, so- she died a few years ago.”  
“That must have been awful…  
“Mmmm.”  
“How old were you?”  
“Jules, please … it’s 5 am…”  
“John, you’re my guy and I want to know what your life was like before we met.”  
“Why? You know me now not then.”  
“Yeah but… Don’t you wanna know stuff about me?”  
John sighs and pulls her very close.  
“I know stuff about you”, he breathes in her ear and sends his fingers down her back, lingering on her ass tantalisingly.  
“Sometimes I have the feeling we have all this great sex because you wanna avoid talking”, Julia breathes back and presses herself against him - she wants him to proceed.  
  
  
**February 16th, 2007**  
  
“Just us girls, like the old days”, Beryl says and hugs Julia, then hands her a glass of wine.

“So how was your Valentine's Day, Julia? Mark and me went to this gorgeous new French restaurant on High Street… nine-course-menu… God … it was sooo delicious… a different wine with each course… we were so stuffed we had to skip the Valentine's Day sex… ”  
The door-bell rings.

“Ah right, Julia, that’s another friend…”, Beryl hastily says. “Totally forgot to warn you… that’s cool with you I hope – I told her about you….”  
Julia shrugs, checking her cell-phone in secret while Beryl gets the door.

“Julia – Nancy – Nancy, I just asked Julia about her Valentine's Day…”

“Ah you know I am not into `official days´.” Julia smiles and knocks down her glass.

“So he didn’t show up, this boy-friend of yours? John, is it?”

“Yes it is John, you have asked that about five hundred times… and everything else is none of your business, Beryl!”  
Julia is clearly touchy about the topic.  
Nancy listens intently, a kind of – professional curiosity written on her face.  
Beryl refills the glasses. “Julia, it is my business. You're my friend” – she looks at Nancy –“we’ve known each other since our grade school days, and I want you to be happy!”

“Great. I'm happy. Do you think I'm unhappy cos I don’t get dragged to a nine-course-meal for Valentine’s Day?!”

“He’s never there, Julia - Thanksgiving, Xmas, New Year’s Eve, Valentine's Day – he’s never there!”

“Not true. We went to the Poconos on New Year’s Eve. He's got a crazily demanding job and it is still none of your business!”  
Julia throws back a second glass. She spent Valentine's Day at home, watching TV, waiting for her cell-phone to ring (it didn’t) and shedding a few lonely tears – although she'd rather die than admit it.

“Have you met him, Beryl?”, Nancy wants to know and takes off her glasses.  
Beryl opens the next bottle. “Indeed I haven’t… the whole thing bothers me. It doesn’t sound like a healthy relationship. It just doesn’t.”

“So it is unhealthy not to show off one’s boyfriend, is that what you mean?” Julia demands sarcastically.

“I'm told he's barely around”, Nancy speaks in a very soft voice. “That must be difficult for you. It must be lonely…”

"It is totally ok."

“What is his crazily demanding job?"

"He's a - he's special forces."

Before Beryl or Nancy can come up with further questions, she adds: "Don't ask, it's classified."

Beryl shrieks: "That's what he says??! So he doesn't have to give you any information?! - Julia,  I once went to this funeral and there were two widows grieving side by the side - at the same grave. Imagine, this guy had two families, in the same city, east end and west end. No wonder he died from a heart-attack before turning 40, must have been quite strenuous for him… God, you know nothing about that guy... He might cheat on you... might be a con artist!”

Julia takes the bottle and refills her glass. “Oh shut up! Just for the record, I'm a police woman so please don’t lecture me about con artists!”

“Yes and Nancy here is a psychologist and a relationship counselor. I asked her to come over because I'm worried about you.”  
Julia looks at Nancy, disbelieving.  
Nancy gives a polite smile and a nod.

At this moment, Julia’s cell-phone rings. She jumps up and leaves the room quickly. “Thank God, you called at just the right moment”, they hear her say.  
Beryl and Nancy go quiet, trying to listen in, but Julia is out of earshot.

“I am worried”, Beryl goes. “Something is really weird about this relationship.”  
“You mentioned possible sexual dependence?”  
“Well, she talked a lot about the great sex they have and-“

“Fuck you, Beryl!”, Julia rushes back in, “does `private conversation´ mean anything to you?”  
“Julia, you went on and on about it…”  
“I only started because you were grilling me… after we had – what – four or five Pina coladas…. and after you told me Mark wanted you to start swinging!”

“Don’t get defensive, Julia, we're here to help you… What makes you think that there's a dependence, Beryl?”

“She told me …  how he lets himself in with a key and moves around stealthily, and that when she's fast asleep and he climbs into bed behind her and starts… fingering her from behind and rubbing himself and fucking her while she is not even awake-“

“Fuck you Beryl, I told you this is a fantasy we play out, does that ring a bell or do you only fantasize about French food?”

“OK, Julia, no need to get upset… so you would say your sex-life is healthy?”

“It is fucking great.”

“We all have different ideas what we like or dislike… but the things I have heard so far – his never being available, his setting the rules for your relationship and taking command - might point to an abusive relationship which would not be healthy…”

Julia tosses back her third glass of wine. “I refuse to even –“  
Her phone rings again. She doesn’t take the call, simply gets up and grabs her coat.  
“I'm off”, she says, “It's been a totally crappy evening but thanks for the wine”, and she takes the bottle with her.

Beryl looks pointedly at Nancy. “That John calls and she rushes off. See what I mean?-“

  
A thin veil of snow covers the street when Julia steps out into the dark. The soles of her shoes make a soft crushing sound. The street looks empty but she’s not deceived, she walks up a few steps and John comes out of the darkness, wearing a leather jacket and smiling at her. She wants to throw herself at him but stops in her tracks.

“Johnny… do you see two people behind the window on the third floor? I'm sure they are watching….”  
“Yeah”, he says, coming up towards her.  
“Johnny… it’s nothing personal… just kiss me afterwards – and make it look good, ok?"  
She walks up and slaps him hard across the face.

“Motherfucker!” he says in bewilderment, holding his cheek.

“Kiss me…” she mouths and throws herself at him. “I’ll explain later”, she whispers against his lips, “I love you…”, and they kiss like Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh.  
  
Standing at the window, Nancy takes in the sight down on the street and touches the frame of her glasses. “Guess I might have to readjust the roles in my abusive relationship-theory…”  
  
  
Two hours later John and Julia lie in bed, naked, holding each other tightly after a long and tender session of sex.  The imprint of her hand is still visible on his cheek. “Poor thing”, she says and leans over to kiss the red spot gently while he lazily strokes her back.  
He smiles.  
“On the other hand... you deserved it - you forgot Valentine's Day!"  
“You think?” he says and turns away so he can reach his pants lying on the floor. “Shut your eyes…”  
When he takes her hand, she gets an idea: “Jeez– you got me a ring!”  
He covers it from her sight with his hand. “It's not precious or diamonds or anything… but it was my mom’s...”  
Julia feels all warm and sunny inside and unspeakably happy.  
John removes his hand and lets her see the small ring of red gold: Two hands holding a heart with a crown.  
“That’s Irish, isn’t it? So your mom was from Ireland?”  
“Not that I know - no idea where she got it from. But she kept it, so she obviously liked it.”

_And it can’t be worth anything otherwise she would have traded it in for dope._

“It’s called a Claddagh after the city the first ones came from. Had to look it up … The way you wear it indicates your relationship status. Put it on like this with your heart pointed towards you to show you are with someone… me, obviously. If you point the heart away from you, people will think you're single – so don’t you dare...”  
“Oh I might give that a try”, she says with a wicked smile and looks from her hand to her lover.  
“This is- perfect … it's wonderful... I'm honoured you know. And very happy!” She giggles. “Jeez I am wicked - I ate all the chocolates I got you cos I didn’t hear from you.… Although I did buy some lingerie that I’ll wear for you tonight…”  
“Well that’s more than I deserve”, he says. His smile doesn't reach his eyes.

 

  
**June 3rd, 2007**

It’s Julia’s birthday and John’s not there. Once again, he’s not there.  
She’s taken the day off which might have been a mistake.

She has lunch with her mother (“Julia, when will I meet this guy of yours? Is he at least taking you out tonight for some fancy dinner or a theater show?”).

She goes to a spa in the afternoon where she gets a manicure and a pedicure and a massage and where she cries in the dressing room.

In the evening, it is a girl’s night out, they drink too much and start chatting up guys and all of a sudden there's Ray, another cop from her precinct.  She knows he fancies her, he always suggests to go for a coffee, so tonight he gets her a drink and they talk and he makes her laugh and he asks her to dance, salsa, he’s good at it, it’s fun, and when the band takes a break he gets them more drinks and he comes closer and all of a sudden she has his tongue in her mouth. And for a few moments, they kiss. She breaks off and apologizes, tells him she's with somebody and rushes out, hails a taxi, runs up the stairs to her flat and doesn’t turn on the lights inside, just throws herself on the bed and cries in the darkness and-

“Jules”, John says, he’s been sitting in the dark waiting for her,  
and he slowly comes towards her and she clings to him, no use pretending, he’s seen her tears anyway, so she keeps on crying.  
He looks at her, concern in his eyes and something else, something she can’t decipher, he takes her hand, he touches her cheek and she leans her head against his chest.  
They don’t speak a single word.

He doesn’t say “Happy birthday” and he doesn’t ask “Who was that guy?”  
He was in bad enough a shape when he got there. Then he saw them, he was outside the bar, intending to secretly show up and surprise her on her birthday. He saw them dancing, saw the spark of attraction in their eyes, and he left. He's at a loss. Confused and desperate and bitter and he has no idea what to say or do.  
It’s the first night together where they don’t have sex. They just lie down in the dark, fully dressed, holding each other but an invisible wall between them that neither of them has the will or the energy to tear down.  
  
“The thing is, I miss you”, she says next morning when he comes in with two coffee mugs. “I had no idea I’d miss you so badly…”  
He says nothing. Just gives her a helpless glance. Which enrages her.  
“So it’s another round of silent treatment, John?”  
“I don’t know what to say.”  
“Yeah… you never know what to say. You never talk at all. You never tell me shit.”  
He covers his face in his hands. “I told you what it would be like…”  
“Yeah so it’s my mistake cos I can’t take it!”  
“I can’t change what I do, Jules. I can’t.  My job has certain … demands … ”  
“So you would, if you could? – Cos people can change jobs…”  
“Well I can’t. Not now. In a few months maybe – but not now. Damn it, I shouldn’t even be here.”  
“So that’s your answer? You shouldn’t even be here?”  
“Jules… listen… it’s not your fault… you have no idea – what I had to do to be here. I want to be here. I miss you too.”  
While he speaks he’s not sure whether it’s the truth. There’s hardly time to think of - this here when he's on the mission. There’s only time to stay sharp, stay alive, sane … gather the intel they expect from him.  
“It doesn’t work, John. Not in the long run.”  
“I am not talking about the long run. We’ll sort it out. Gimme a few months, that’s all I ask.”  
A beat.  
“I mean, Jules – what’s the alternative?”  
The coffee’s getting cold.  
“Do you have – an alternative, Jules?”  
He can see her racking her brains and decides to take the risk.  
“Someone available for salsa-dancing?”  
“Jesus, John”, she says, angry because she feels so guilty, “you watched me?! You fucking spied on me?!”  
“If I spied on you I wouldn’t have to ask”, he says and gets up. He looks out of the window, careful not to make himself seen. It’s his second nature, he doesn’t even notice.  
“You are paranoid and shut off, and you expect me to sit here and wait for you like some damsel in distress waiting for her knight in shining armour to return. But I don’t want to be that girl … and I don’t need a knight… I need someone to actually be in my life.”  
John doesn’t move.  
“Say something! For God's sake, John, talk to me!”  
Thing is, he still doesn’t know what to say. He looks at Jules, so flushed and angry … He takes refuge in their usual way of communication: He goes up to her, folds his arms around her and starts kissing her, greedy, desperate, half expecting her to push him away. She doesn’t. She gives in because all she wants for them is to be a happy couple.  
  
“You know you did it again”, she says, around noon, both of them sore and spent, “you always resort to sex when you don’t wanna talk…”  
John takes her hand, his lips brush her palm gently.  
“We can make this work, Jules… please. Other people can.”  
“What do you mean, other people?! I can’t even call you! Even astronauts at the ISS have established ways of communicating with their families.”  
“I can apply for the space program next time.”  
“Harhar.- And those are couples with a history…. They had time together, they have memories, they have kids…”  
“You think it would be easier if we had kids?”  
“I don’t know. Maybe… it might feel - more – real. You are only real while you are here, you know?”  
“Yeah”, he says and it’s the truth: She only feels real to him when he’s with her.

  
  
**Two days before Thanksgiving, 2006**

  
Peter Quinn disembarks from the Cessna in Cartagena, Columbia, carrying a leather case. He wears a light suit, a white shirt, a tie and cuff buttons and looks like a drug baron from Miami. That’s the idea. He takes out a handkerchief and wipes his forehead. The sweltering heat is a killer.  
So is the guy waiting for him. The right hand of a FARC big shot. He waits for "Peter Quincey", a man well-connected to the East Coast drug scene.  
If they don’t buy his cover, Peter Quinn is dead.

  
  
**December 1st, 2006**

  
At a party at the house of one of the FARC leaders, "Peter Quincey", sits with the padrón, when two girls, clearly under-age, enter the room.  
“Ah my little treasures,” the padrón says and pinches one of the girls.  
Peter’s face is blank of any emotion.  
“Here’s something for my guest from the U.S. of A.”, and the target takes out a little plastic bag with white powder in it and prepares two lines on the glass table.  
He looks at Peter expectantly who, with a nonchalant gesture, tells him to go first. The target sniffs the line with a silver straw.  
Peter takes out a 100-Dollar-bill, rolls it thoroughly, and sniffs the second line.  
The coke hits his brain and sets all lights afire. It feels fucking awesome. No wonder people kill for this shit.

  
  
**February 12th, 2007**

A woman lays in his bed. Courtesy of the house, a chica the host had also indulged in himself, he is told, so it’s a privilege and an honor Peter can’t refuse.  
Peter looks at her soft curves, her beautiful face, the nothingness in her dark eyes.  
He needs another line of coke to get this done.  
He tells her to turn around so he doesn’t have to see her face while he fucks her and tells her to leave right afterwards.  
“You were not happy with my girl?”, his host asks next morning, sounding insulted.  
“She was great but I never share my bed to sleep.”  
“You don't trust a chica? God, you Americans!” - His host laughs.

  
  
**May 31st, 2007**

They’ve reached the heartland, Peter, his host and his footmen. The heart of darkness. A zone in the Bolivar province of Columbia, where right-wing paramilitary and left wing FARC-rebels have business collaborations. Business means: Cocaine farming, processing, trading. Both groups are well armed and beyond the reach of the national justice system.  
And he’s to put a dent in all of that. He’s here to collect evidence. The DEA, the military, the Columbian government need data. Who's in bed with who? The coordinates of the fields, the infrastructure, the name of the clients in the U.S.  
Thing is, he’s at his breaking-point … hanging onto sanity by the skin of his teeth.  
He wakes up in the middle of the night, his heart racing, and realizes he can’t remember what Julia looks like. He tries but only sees the empty eyes of the chica in his bed.  
He starts enjoying the white powder because it makes him feel strong, self-assured, on top of the world, if only for a few brief moments and he knows that he's treading a dangerous road. He considers what Julia is going to think if he dies in this shithole. Will she curse him? Will he inflict pain by being gone?

 

**December 19st, 2007**

The bodyguards shove two guys in the room. Peasants, from the look of it. Torn clothing, sun weathered faces, fear in their eyes. They are tied up.  
His host plays with a gun. A Glock 43. Then offers it Peter.  
“You shoot them so I know I can trust you. Partners in crime, you know.”  
Peter does not betray any emotion. His brain works in overdrive.  
“What for?”  
“To prove we are in this together.”  
“No.”  
“No, what do you mean - no?” The voice of his host sounds threatening.  
“No. I don’t trust you. Maybe you’ll film it to sell me to the guardia. So: No. I ain’t gonna shoot them.”  
“I see.”  
His hosts releases the gun.  
_Fuck._ He’s going to die in this god forsaken place.  
A shot. One of the peasants collapses to the ground, the wound lethal.  
His host hands him the gun.  
“Your turn, Peter Quince. Partners in crime.”  
Peter sees the panic on the peasant’s face. Shit, he will go to hell for this.  
He takes the gun and shoots with steady hands.  
The man who did nothing but show up at the wrong place at the wrong time is dead on the spot.

  
**December 21st, 2007**

Julia hasn’t heard from John in weeks. After the initial period of disbelief she ranted on and cursed and took out her anger on everyone around. Now she has become quiet and withdrawn. Sad.  
When her phone rings on this Friday night, she doesn’t feel like answering. But she does.  
“Jules, it’s John, listen… Take a flight to Miami and meet me there, Hotel Mandarin Oriental, day after tomorrow, you got that? Don’t call back, I gotta get rid of that phone… will you be there, please?”  
She starts crying and tries not to let on.  
“Did you hear me? Did you get it, Jules?”  
“Yes”, she says, and he hangs up.

  
**December 23rd, 2007**

She nearly doesn’t board that flight. It seems so – futile. It costs a fortune, and all she’ll get will be a few stolen hours with John in a hotel bed, then a painful good-bye. Her friends, if she had told them, would have advised her not to fly. Not to change work schedules and risk missing the family Christmas celebration.  
That’s why she does it: Cos they all would tell her to stay away.  
He’s not waiting at the airport.  
He’s not waiting at the hotel but someone has left a card of the adjoining restaurant Azul so she goes there for dinner.  
She hasn't decided what to order when he comes up, not giving away that they know each other, just asking politely if he can sit at her table.  
He looks different, much older. It's the clothing - an expensive linen suit - and his tan and something else. A haunted look on his face.  
“Thank you for coming”, he says, and “the tuna is delicious.”  
They measure each other up.  
“What's this?”, she asks, “are we going to play we just bumped into each other and I’ll take you to my room…?”  
“That’s the idea”, her boyfriend who resembles a stranger replies. “You would have liked that kind of shit before…”  
“Before”, she says, “not now, Johnny”, and she empties her wine.  
He tries very hard to make her talk, asks all kind of questions. He can’t tell her shit, that’s why.  
  
She throws up on the way back to her room. The wine, the anxiety… or maybe the tuna. He hands her a handkerchief. Silk, embroidery.  
  
They're shy with each other while they undress. There is no teasing left between them. John removes Julia’s shirt, kissing and sucking on her breast, then stopping, appalled, looking up at her to make sure she wants him to. To make sure she still wants him at all.  


**May 30th, 2008**

Five months. It's taken him five months to get back to her. Back to Philadelphia. He has called her so she knows he's coming.  
He rings the bell at her door and when she opens, his eyes nearly pop out of his head: Her features are softer, her breasts bigger, her belly rounded under her dress.  
She gives him an awkward smile.  
“Well”, she says, “Miami was a direct hit”, and she bites her lips but there’s the old mischievous light back in her eyes and he chuckles but doesn’t dare to touch her.  
“So”, she says, “you’re coming in or what?”  
  
After the door is shut he asks if he can embrace her and if he can kiss her and if he can touch her belly and he looks truly, sincerely happy.  
And she tells him how it has been so far, no morning sickness but all tired in the evening, that it took her three months to realize that she was pregnant and that she'd cursed him for not being around, for not being contactable, “Doctor says it’s a boy so it’s a Johnny, I’d say”, and she makes espresso and sits on his lap and his hands run over her body … he can’t believe this is for real.  
He has a pretty good idea how lonely and desperate she's probably been but they don’t talk about it, both determined to avoid any dark clouds of gloom on the day of their reunion.  
“I've got a prenatal class tonight, I'll be out for around two hours - ok?”  
“Can I come?” he asks.  
“Sure…” she says, and he can’t know how happy she is having him accompany her to classes for a change.  
  
He is all eager to come along to see the doctor, to learn about the due date of the baby, to get lectured on his duties in the labor room. He drives Jules around, and they shop for a cradle, a pram … a musical box. They have four full days – the longest stretch of time they've spent together in the last 18 months. He knows he’ll head back to South America at the end of the week and hates breaking the news to her.  
She takes it in. Reflects. Looks at her hand with the Claddagh. Then at John.  
“John – I need you here for the birth. Promise me you’ll be here with me in September. I can’t do this on my own. I won’t. I just can't be a single mom, you hear me? You've gotta be here!”  
“I will be here”, he says, “I’ll promise.”  
He’s not too sure whether they should be making love but easily gives in when she takes the initiative. She is on top so that she can call the shots – avoid anything that causes discomfort.  
She cries out his name when she comes.  
He's sure he'll be able to honor his promise. The operation runs smoothly, its conclusion seems to be only a matter of time. Two months, three at most. The timing will work out perfectly. They are in this together. All will be well. He takes in her changed body, softer, rounder … she is his girl carrying his child - it is overwhelming, and he gives himself away with a sigh.

They both have no idea it will be their last time together.  
  
*

**Bolivar**

End of July, their front man fucks up and ends up with a bullet in his head. Middle of August Peter Quinn accompanies the FARC on a dirt trail across the continent. He never even considers calling it quits and letting himself be exfiltrated to the U.S. - it would mean his target would get away – continue shooting peasants and trafficking children. He can’t let that stand.  
It's the wet season and they get stuck in some valley.  
It’s well past September when he gets back to the U.S. It's Christmas, to be exact.

To get there, he has to give the go for and survive the largest raid on Columbian drug farming since the Medellin days. The Cartagena connection starts a 12-day-shoot-out with the government troups and the DEA. He's with the padrón when the attack begins, they immediately prepare an escape to a safe house.

Just before getting there he makes the padrón stop, pointing a gun at him.  
Shock and realization widen the man’s eyes: “Es sicario?”

Peter Quinn just pulls the trigger, finally taking his target down.

There are other FARC members nearby so he has to take off, zigzagging through the jungle, careful not to run into any and lucky to make it out alive, sometimes only narrowly avoiding rounds of ammo aimed at him by FARC _and_ government troups.  
He surrenders to a DEA unit, which might well be the most dangerous moment of his mission given that he still wears a FARC uniform.  He rips off the shirt, throws away his gun and shouts that he's an American, shouts to make himself heard.  A gun barrel to the head knocks him out, a SIG Pro by the looks of it - but at least they haven't shot him.  
They tie him up and kick him around, it takes a few hours until his identity is confirmed: Dar Adal himself is flown in to intervene. The DEA guys give him a nod, someone hands him a bottle of water which he finishes within seconds, unable to get up from the floor, completely drained of all energy. The voices he hears seem distorted, like his head is underwater.

A feeling that sticks with him even when he's brought back to Washington and led down into the agency basement. It sticks with him during the thorough debrief from three officials, Dar Adal among them, during the polygraph (“standard procedure, Peter… and thank you for a difficult job done well, you've made the world a better place”), during another secret meeting with DEA big shots, enduring what seem like endless protocols and safety measures … He has to sign a lot of papers. He's advised not to carry any weapons until he has a further psychological debrief which makes him feel uneasy - as if he might fly off the handle! – but he doesn’t argue. Standard procedure, most likely. He just wants to get out and get rid of that underwater feeling...

It is December 27th, when he first lays hands on a phone. He tries to call Julia to let her know he’s coming.

“The number you have dialed is not connected.”  
The automated message sounds surprisingly sharp. No more underwater feeling.  
  
Even before he walks up to the house she used to live in, he knows she’s moved out. He just knows.  
Her name has disappeared from the letterbox.  
Doesn’t matter, he’s a spy, he knows shit.  
She’s living in another part of the city. Not the fancy part, but nice. A lot of families, well-groomed playgrounds. There’s another name in the directory he tries to ignore.  
  
It’s late in the afternoon when he walks up to the house, wearing his leather jacket. He is a few yards away, when the door opens. Instinctively, John hides behind a huge Christmas-tree.  
It’s Julia, slim again, dressed in a winter-coat, wearing a hat and gloves. Next to her is a man, holding the baby-carrier in his left hand. John takes a sharp breath: It’s the guy from the salsa-dancing.  
He considers calling her name and making himself seen.  
The salsa-dancer opens the car, puts in the baby-carrier, buckles it up, Julia leans forward, kisses the baby, then kisses the guy.  
Peter doesn’t make a sound. He just stands there, behind the Christmas tree like some dude in a stupid comedy, and watches his girl getting kissed by another man, watches her get in the car and drive off with this man and with a kid.  
_His_ kid.

He realizes he's fucked up for good.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Is there no line, finly, is there no f*ing line?"  
> Sorry to upset you guys - but don't we all agree PQ is a torn and withdrawn character, his line of work soulshattering?!  
> Quote PQ on PQ: "I was a bad guy."
> 
> The Epilogue will make some amends.


End file.
